


Beating Hearts

by Inaccessible Rail (strangetales)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: M/M, archive warning: all the goddamn tropes, archive warning: childhood friends, archive warning: injuries and intimacy, archive warning: small town life, archive warning: tooth rotting romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12013599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetales/pseuds/Inaccessible%20Rail
Summary: He assumes he’ll tell him before he leaves for active duty. That’d make sense, right? Only his tongue kinda gets caught in the back of his throat and all he can offer is a platonic pat on the back. David Nolan falls in love with his best friend. It is a mistake. CC AU.





	Beating Hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eirabach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eirabach/gifts).



> A gift for the lovely Clare after she prompted me using a postcard. Quite the romantic, that one. Title taken from "Beating Hearts," by King Charles, which you should def listen to before or after reading this thing.

Killian’s practically one giant bruise the first time they meet. He’s small and thin and David overhears a library aid refer to him as “wild.” But he likes to share his lunch even though there’s not a lot of it, and he likes spitting in August Booth’s milk every time he picks on one of their classmates. The first time he’d caught him doing it, a giant glob of mucus hanging from the corner of his mouth, David had just sat there, slack-jawed, as Killian offered up a very lame “wink” using his left _and_ right eye—mere moments before it plopped quite mercilessly into the carton below.

Thinking back, he’s shocked that they ever became friends. David was what some lovingly referred to as a goody-goody; a bright eyed, well-behaved little gentleman who very rarely got into trouble, if ever, and who performed quite adequately in all of his classes. As far as the rest of their community knew, his family was relatively normal, at least when they knew people were watching.

“Your da yells a lot,” Killian had observed one morning after their very first playdate, his brow furrowed as he searched around the table for the right color to use.

David hadn’t really known what to say, because yes, of course his father yelled a lot, but no one was supposed to know that. And if they did know, they certainly weren’t supposed to say anything about it.

“That’s ok,” he had continued, furiously filling in a ship’s sail with a bright, neon pink, “my da yells a lot too.”

If David had to pinpoint a guess, he’d have to say that was it. The moment he’d decided Killian would be a good friend. He never made a big deal of anything, or at least, he never made a big deal of the things that were bigger deals inside your own head. And _a lot_ of things were _insurmountable_ in his own head.

“Just put these in his drink,” Killian had suggested one day in middle school, dropping two pills into David’s hand. “Liam used to do it all the time. Old man was out for hours.”

It wasn’t all doom and gloom of course, the both of them faced their fair share of challenges, but it was also idyllic in a lot of ways. Growing older was a blessing for them both, but David couldn’t help but think of it as a bit of a curse when all his memories started to blur further and further together. Before Killian leaves for his first tour, he tries to think back and it’s not unlike sitting on a train. When you’re on the train, right? You look out the window and the world is just speeding past you without a care for how slow you’d _like_ to be going—caring very little for what you’d _like_ to remember, and if you try too hard to pick out anything specific you grow a bit nauseous.

There’s a few moments frozen in his mind, aside from the traumatic ones, which books have informed him he is helpless to forget and slated to remember for the rest of his life, that he returns to again and again, moments with Killian he prays he’ll never forget.

* * *

**15.**

It is August, school starts in one week, and they are mere days away from becoming high schoolers. Technically, Killian still has one more year in middle school, but his grades were so off-the-charts awesome, the administration had no choice but to advance him a year. Everyone was surprised, but David wasn’t. Not really. He’s seen the chest in Killian’s room—the one full of books that only Liam knows about. Secretly, he’d always hoped more people would notice how smart Killian is, even though it’s not really the “cool” thing to be. Regardless, he is proud to be one of the few people that _always_ knew, and where have these people even _been_?

“You can’t really blame them, mate,” Killian says from his place at David’s side, legs dangling over the edge of the railing, “I _was_ an ill-formed beastie.”

“I still don’t see why we have to do this,” David answers, swallowing nervously, the heat on the back of his neck almost _unbearable_. “The public pool would work just fine.”

“My apologies, do you prefer swimming in urine? Because I’d rather not.”

A lot of kids make this jump, it’s not a totally out-of-the-blue suggestion, but it is quite high up, and for all his righteous indignation, David’s never been as brave as he’d like. Not as brave as Killian. A truck zooms behind them, ruffling his hair and for the love of God, urine sounds damn fine right now.

In his memory, Killian is in technicolor and the rest of the world is sepia-toned. Kind of like _The Wizard of Oz_. He can remember the warmth of the air that day, how it had been so oppressively warm, even the odd breeze had failed to offer any relief. The smell of the lake beneath their feet, the fetidness of of still water and heavy, bloated plant life. At some point, Killian’s hand comes up to smack at a mosquito buzzing around his neck, and that’s when he’d noticed it—the shape of his jaw, the smattering of hair on his neck and chin, the elegant length of his fingers, the tips of them callused from all that guitar playing.

“You ready?” he had asked, seemingly oblivious to Dave’s attention, his eyes practically sparkling with excitement. “Shall we count to three?”

“We don’t need to ‘count to three,’” David mumbled, trying to ignore the tumult of anxious butterflies beating their wings against the inside of his stomach.

Killian grinned knowingly, grabbing David’s fingers and releasing his death-grip on the railing. The whole jump probably happened in about 5 seconds, but in David’s memory, time came to a grinding halt as they stood on that lip of concrete, the hot metal of the railing digging into their backs. He can recall the final squeeze of Killian’s fingers, the distant shout of a child, and then, “Three!”

Into the dark water they plunged, with Killian’s fingers still curled around his own.

* * *

It’s been two years since he laid eyes on Killian Jones. In that time he’s finished two years of undergrad, moved out of his parent’s house, adopted a dog, and written terrible poetry about Killian’s hands.

“Seriously, it’s fucking terrible.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself buck-o,” Ruby warbles pleasantly, falling onto his shoulder to maintain her balance. “I’m sure it’s perfectly lovely.”

Ruby is David’s roommate, but she’s almost never there. Which is... odd, but he can’t really judge her for it. He’s the idiot who’s been in love with his best friend for three years and never said anything. The unbelievably _enormous idiot_ who let his best friend leave for the freaking _Navy_ without telling him the truth.

“What if I never see him again? Do you realize that at any given moment this country is prepared to go to actual war? Like with… bullets and... stuff?”

“Excuse me, ‘and stuff?’” Ruby cackles, taking another swig of tequila, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“I don’t think so,” he answers, grabbing the bottle before it shatters against the pavement, “I listen to a lot of podcasts. I know what I’m talking about.”

* * *

**12.**

Killian’s father leaves around Christmas. Which is around when, incidentally, they get into their first big fight. They’ve had fights before of course, they’re full of weird hormones and their brains are basically on fire, it’s a miracle they can even hold a conversation. But this is one of those fights that makes David feel as if his heart has dropped into his stomach; and his throat is always sore, and even though his mom says it’s because he’s catching the bug that’s going around, he knows it’s because he hasn’t spoken to Killian in a week.

He had wanted to ditch school and steal cigarettes from the gas station on the corner. Started taking sips from Dave’s father’s liquor cabinet, not to mention blowing off all their friends so he could listen to angry music on his headphones and throw eggs off the highway overpass.

“You need to calm down or you’re gonna get in trouble,” Dave had insisted forcefully, the moral compass spinning wildly inside his head urging him to save his best friend from a terrible fate. In hindsight, he definitely made it worse. Nothing an angry, hurt kid hates more than being lectured by an equally dramatic, equally small know-it-all.

“Oh, I need to ‘calm down?’” Killian answered quietly, pulling the headphones down around his neck. “Why don’t you mind your own business for once?”

“I’m just trying to help you!”

It would be the first and only time they’d get into an actual, physical altercation. David doesn’t like to think about it much, but it is, unfortunately, one of those signs or landmarks that might catch your eye while you’re staring out the train window. The feeling of Killian’s hand against his shoulder, his own feet staggering backwards. The sound of his choked voice, the suspicious, wet sheen over his eyes.

“I don’t need your _help_ !” he yelled, shoving him again, “No one asked you to be here. Go back home to your perfect little life, _Dave_.”

He’s not proud of how he reacted, he could’ve just let him walk away. But, ya know, he was _twelve_ . He was living at home with an alcoholic father and a mother who didn’t do much to get him to stop. Killian knew _exactly_ what buttons to push, even when they were too young to really know why. David Nolan, the perfect, polite student. Everyone spent so much time assuming his life was a fairytale, any adult worth their salt had consistently failed to notice that he was drowning. Except Killian. Which was probably why it hurt so bad.

The next thing he remembers there’s some unnamed teacher pulling him off the best friend he’s ever had, wiping some blood away from his lips.

“Don’t bother coming over for Christmas,” David hissed, his face red and sweaty, “no one ever wanted you there anyway.”

“Not a problem,” he answered with a suspicious sniffling of his nose, swinging his backpack over his shoulder. “See ya never.”

* * *

That had been the only Christmas they’d spent apart until recently, and it had taken David _months_ to forgive himself, even though Killian had forgiven him fairly readily. As twelve year old boys are wont to do.

“I was a prat,” he had said softly, his lip still a bit swollen. “I just miss him. And Liam’s angry all the time.”

“It’s okay,” David muttered quickly, “do you wanna come over and play video games?”

This past Christmas, Killian had sent him a card with an old, vintage illustration of a whale hunt gone wrong. “Mistakes were made,” is printed across the bottom, and David actually snorts when he tries to contain the literal _guffaw_.

“It’s cold here,” the letter reads in Killian’s steady, artful hand, “I miss my bed, and the freedom to eat shite and watch television whenever I’d like. Hope you’re well, mate. Miss your pancakes.”

It’s signed with a dramatically large “K” next to a poorly drawn Christmas tree, and David’s heart clenches in his chest. He wraps up a paperback copy of _Moby Dick_ and sends it off to Killian’s fleet, but not before writing a note on the inside cover about how the whale probably isn’t worth losing a limb over.

* * *

**17.**

The first time he wonders whether or not he might be a little bit in love with his best friend is right after he finds out that he’s enlisted. Not that he’s thinking of enlisting, or considering his other non-collegiate options; no, he’s _already enlisted_. To say he’s blindsided by the whole thing is an understatement, not to mention the scar on his hand from the second degree burn after the fact.

A camping trip in June, right after high school graduation but a few months before Dave leaves for college in Canada. Which Killian was sure to give him endless grief about, only after he was sure David would bring him anything and everything flavored like maple syrup. There’s this spot in the woods they’d discovered when they were kids, it’s the absolute perfect camping spot. Far enough away that you can’t hear the highway, but close enough that you could walk there mildly intoxicated and not vomit.

There’s a creek nearby, some convenient tree-cover for those hotter days, and the fire pit they’d built years ago is still intact, so at this point in their lives, the trip itself could barely be considered “camping.” Regardless, it’s still a blast every time they go, packing up Dave’s dad’s truck with snacks, booze, sleeping bags, and Killian’s shitty telescope. Dave’s in the middle of throwing a log on the fire when he hears the news, hence the burn.

“So, I know I told you I hadn’t decided on a school yet,” he begins, taking a drag of his cigarette, “but really it’s because I decided to enlist in the Navy—”

Dave hisses at the flame licking up his thumb as Killian continues as if he hadn’t heard, “...with Liam.”

David likes Liam just fine, ok? The two of them had it real rough growing up, and it’s not like David can say he’d do anything different. He didn’t raise a younger brother when he was barely grown himself, working multiple jobs and paying off his father’s debts. He certainly didn’t raise a _Killian Jones_ , all honor and stubbornness and a tendency towards making truly boneheaded mistakes. But still, while he understands Killian’s adoration of the guy, he’s also heard the backhanded compliments, the unrealistic expectations. The freaking hour long lectures about what Killian is _supposed_ to be doing with his life. And he’s seen Killian afterwards, pretending that he’s not absolutely crushed at this summation of his character by the one person he loves most in the world.

“Oh,” David finally says, cradling his injured hand towards his chest, “Why?”

“I don’t know, seems a bit more exciting than sitting in a classroom, doesn’t it?”

“I… guess.”

It’s hard to know what to say when his hand feels like it’s still _on fire_ , afraid to look down and see deformed, burned flesh. It’s doubly hard to know what to say when his heart has started to pound in a familiar, yet entirely unfamiliar way. It hurts in that same way it did when he’d seen Katherine at the dance with Jefferson in 8th grade. This hopeless, aching echo inside of his chest. _What the hell is that?_

“Bloody hell, Dave. You want some ointment for that?”

And then there’s the hustle and bustle of Killian’s movements around the fire, searching around for bandages and water and more alcohol, only there’s a buzzing in Dave’s ear that just keeps getting louder with every passing moment.

“You’re leaving?” he asks as Killian kneels in front of him, gingerly wrapping gauze around his hand. He pauses about halfway through and sighs, his eyes never straying from his task.

“Yeah, mate. In a few weeks.”

They don’t talk for a bit after that, their silence made louder in the wake of the crackling fire and chirping insects. His hand still _kills_ , but he figures it must be the adrenaline—the way Killian’s eyes shine just a bit bluer in the glow of the dying fire, how his breath sounds steady and safe in his ear. The feeling of his rough fingertips every time they pass over a piece of unburned flesh, the hair on the back of his neck standing up.

It’s the next morning, on their drive back home that he considers just how long he’d let their hands linger together in the quiet of Killian’s revelation. How maybe it stopped being about his totally avoidable injury and more about the fact of their impending separation.

“We’ll go for a jump off the bridge before you leave, right?” he asks in front of Killian’s house, trying for a smile and failing.

“Only of course,” he’d answered winningly, his features betraying not even a hint of distress. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

* * *

He doesn’t pick him up from the airport because the ambience of the airport is just asking for trouble. It’s a veritable melting pot of emotion. Whatever anyone’s feeling inside the airport at any given moment, chances are they’re feeling it at the absolute _most_ that anyone could feel anything. No one is simply “happy” to see their loved one, rather, they’re _overjoyed_ . You’re not “tired,” no, you’re _fucking exhausted_. He’s worried that, were he to pick Killian up from the airport, he’d do something ridiculous like run towards him in baggage claim and tackle him to the ground—or worse, make some bumbling confession of love. So, no, picking him up from the airport was definitely not an option.

He does have to show up at the welcome home party though, otherwise he’s just a dick.

“Dave!” Killian yells from somewhere in the crowd, his voice young and booming as he limps across the kitchen. “Was afraid you weren’t planning on showing, mate.”

“Of course not,” he answers, trying to avoid staring at his injured knee. Killian had already told him about the injury in a letter, something about an explosion below deck and being tossed into military grade hardware. No big deal. Sure.

“D’ya want a drink?”

The party is loud and hot and seems to go on forever. Killian and Liam’s house is filled with old friends from school, all of their faces blurring together with every new beer in his hand. Normally he’d be perfectly happy to catch up and reminisce, but on this night he plays the wallflower, awkwardly moving from conversation to conversation, trying to avoid the sound of Killian’s laugh and Killian’s voice and Killian’s hand on his shoulder every time he thinks he’s managed to escape.

He finally manages to stumble outside around 1 AM, his head only just starting to pound, and the notion of collapsing on top of his small, childhood bed is unlike any other feeling of relief he’s ever known in his life. He hears the “Oi!” at his back and tries very hard not to wince, turning to face Killian’s eager and slightly dejected grin.

“Where you off to?”

“Bed,” he answers sleepily, hoping to skip this conversation entirely, “gotta be up early in the morning.”

For one blissful moment, Killian looks contemplative, his hand coming up to artfully scratch at the almost-beard on his face. It had been too much to hope that he’d be able to leave with his dignity still intact, his secrets and bad poetry locked ever so carefully away. Far, far too much.

“How about a quick walk, then?” Killian asks quietly, suddenly appearing far more sober than David had thought. “For old time’s sake?”

* * *

They wind up at the old bridge of all places, a full moon shining dramatically over the surface of the still lake. It’s early fall, so it’s not bitterly cold yet, but pre-dawn hours in Maine can get pretty brisk, and David’s thankful for the thickness of the flannel around his shoulders. Killian’s outfit is far more impractical, which is just par for the course, really. Leather jacket zipped open, button-down shirt as equally revealing as the jacket that should do little in the way of warmth, but he seems to be faring just fine. Must be all those nights on the open ocean; far, far away from here.

“Do you recall the first time we jumped from here?” he asks in a whisper, his forearms leaning heavily against the rail.

“Yeah,” David replies, easily, as if he _hadn’t_ obsessed over it for months. “Yeah, I remember.”

Killian pulls a cigarette out of his back pocket, and David makes a note of the slight shake in his hand as he lights it.

“So, you’re done now, right?” he asks hesitantly, breathing in the smoke and the cool crispness of the night air around them, the worn leather of Killian’s jacket. “You’re sticking around?”

“I don’t know,” smiling, crushing the butt of it against the railing and turning to stare up at the stars. “I _was_ thinking of visiting Canada for a bit. Getting a look at the sights.”

 _This is it_ , David thinks, tracing the shape of Killian’s face in the moonlight, trying to ignore the new scar on his cheek, _this is one of those things_. Those memories, the ones you’re lucky enough to remember? It’s happening, right now, and he’s trying to be in the moment and appreciate it for what it is, only he’s having a hard time coming to grips with the fact that this could very well be one of those fleeting things—one of those inconsequential moments he won’t need to remember in 30 or 40 years.

That’s when he feels the warmth of Killian’s hand around his fingers, their roughness almost exactly as he can recall it in his memories of that night. It’s almost as if he can feel every line in his skin, every new layer of grief and hardship and happiness and it’s curving so wonderfully against the softness of his own.

“You are thinking far too loudly.”

Killian’s voice his hovering somewhere near the shell of his ear, soft and husky and full of delicious, heated breath that smells of tobacco and rum. The tip of his nose is somewhere around there too, perhaps resting closer to his earlobe, maybe at the corner of his jaw, but then it’s the brief wetness of his lips, the tip of his tongue.

“Killian—”

You know a kiss by the way it urges you to forget yourself. You can guess at its merit by how little you concern yourself with what might come after, or even what might have come before. The only other thing he can feel in that moment, aside from Killian’s lips against his own, is the feeling of his hand on the back of his head, his fingers tugging on his hair. He’d make a joke about trying to get his attention, only it’s pretty well in hand at the moment.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for ages,” Killian breathes the words into his mouth, his fingers loosening their grip in order to run down the length of his neck. “All I could think about.”

“Since when?”

“I don’t know,” he laughs, a strange shyness overtaking his countenance, “since I ever started wanting to kiss anybody.”

“I wish you’d told me sooner, could’ve saved the both of us a lot of trouble.”

“I know,” he answers, pulling away to look him in the eye. There’s a contentment there, something David had rarely seen in all the years they’d known one another, and he can only hope that it’s reflected back in his own; this feeling like maybe they were supposed to end up here all along.

Their fingers weave together and David can hear a dog bark, a car revving it’s engine, the water rippling beneath them with the breeze. It’s not totally unlike any other time they’d been here together, waiting for the jump, that feeling of weightlessness carrying them through one moment to the next. And but for the moon shining overhead the moment is the same, the two of them, side-by-side, falling through the air.


End file.
